


Nice or Naughty?

by SrebrnaFH



Series: Monday Fix-Its [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 05:34:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17238359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SrebrnaFH/pseuds/SrebrnaFH
Summary: Second part to "A Christmas Miracle". Was John naughty or nice this year?And is Santa going to bring him his desired present?Monday Fix-its is a series of one-shots (or two-parters) that take a piece of cannon BBC Sherlock and fix it so that JohnLock would happen. It won't necessarily happen IN the story, but it is the aim or each of these stories. HEA for our boys is the priority.





	Nice or Naughty?

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, that one is plain followup to the last one. Didn't want to let go and insisted on being written.

The whole previous year came under the caption “hard” in John’s book.

It had been hard not to punch Mycroft on the nose when he showed up with the doctors.

It had been hard to let go of Sherlock.

It had been hard to go back to London, leaving the half-healed detective behind.

It had been hard to meet other people.

It had been hard just to breathe.

There were some bright spots, however.

Joining Lestrade for a pint on selected occasions.

Picking up trainings and conferences to prepare for revalidation of his medical license.

Moving back to 221B.

That last one under the guise of taking care of Mrs Hudson, who, although still spry and energetic, seemed to become more frail and prone to small yet daunting contusions.

“It is good of you,” Greg remarked in February, when John shared the move plans with him. “That old bird would probably be able to take down a burglar with a frying pan and a curling iron, but one day she will find her own stairs too much of a challenge. I had an aunt who was just the same. Terror of the neighbourhood, chased kids off her lawn with well-aimed boiled potatoes, but one day she stepped badly in her own hall and had to trade her little cottage for a care home.”

“Well, she says she will feel safer with me there, and Mycroft didn’t manage to force himself to pack up Sherlock’s stuff, so I will try to make a dent in that. I think…” he trailed off, looking out of the window at the bustling afternoon street. “I am thinking of writing a book. A proper book about Sherlock. I’ll take my blog, enhance the entries with what I remember about his logic and try to rewrite all that with proper dialogue and details about police procedure.”

Lestrade slurped the rest of his beer noisily.

“That’s a great idea, actually. You could make a pretty penny out of it.”

John considered it for a moment.

“Yeah, that would be nice, too. But mostly it will give me something to do between my medical boards… I can’t just keep studying all day. And it will give me some reason to introduce order to 221B.”

“If you find a rusty harmonica, let me know, once upon a time it used to be evidence…” Lestrade brought two more pints to the table and sat comfortably. “And if you need some help describing some details, give me a call. I may not be Sherlock, but I got promoted to a DI on my own merits. And I do have access to the actual court documents for all the cases that ended up there.”

“That would be great, ta,” John picked up his pint. “To literary endeavours!”

“To the prompt payment of royalties!” countered Greg.

“As long as people buy and read it, I will be happy.”

 

#

 

He managed to get his license back. He went to therapy - he had ‘not talking about certain things’ down pat now, so the therapist wasn’t surprised when he flat out declined to talk about Sherlock. The book was published in a surprisingly short time and people bought it - not in some overwhelming numbers, but there was a steady trickle of quids into his account. He attended a press meeting or two, where he was asked about Sherlock and kept to the topic of the book. He joined an outing with NSY for Lestrade’s birthday.

The clinic he worked half-shifts in was nice, clean and gave him a feeling of being useful. The other employees had - at least at the beginning - given him a wide berth, thinking his microcelebrity status would make him prideful or haughty. It took him all of two weeks to convince them that he was most definitely  _not_  going to be using his temporary status as the darling of the journalists to further his career. Whatever that would look like.

He came to work at seven, he started to admit patients at eight, he did as good a job as he could, he finished by half twelve and left by half one. He was kind towards the nurses, courteous to other doctors and nice to the kids. He very carefully didn’t associate with anyone from work. He didn’t need new entanglements.

 

#

 

Mary Morstan was smiling to him in a way that vaguely registered as “overly friendly”. Every time he went by the nurses’ station, she was there, fluttering her eyelashes at him. Every time he had a little break between patients (not that often), she popped into his office, offering tea or coffee. And, from time to time, she made a suggestion of maybe meeting him outside of the clinic.

Nope, not happening.

Especially not with someone who was  _that_  pushy.

“How do you like your coffee, doctor Watson?”

He firmly squashed the idea of answering 'Tall, dark and mysterious, just like my men’.

“I prefer tea, nurse Morstan.”

“I could bring you tea then?”

_Go away, please._

“No, thank you, I’ve got mine right here.”

“Oooh. Your wife prepares you a work lunch then?”

_Fishing, nurse Morstan?_

“No, I’m a fully capable adult man, nurse Morstan. I can brew my own tea when I wish to. Is Mr Tobias out there?”

She pouted. Honest to God pouted. And flounced out of his room.

She was becoming more and more annoying with every day and he was carefully considering his next steps, should she escalate the behaviour. He really wished Sherlock was there and helped him to identify what it was in Miss Morstan that made all his hair stand up on end.

He sighed and awaited Mr Tobias’ appearance. Patients were his priority. Everything else was secondary.

 

#

 

September passed slowly amongst allergies, two more press meetings about his book and Sherlock, some evening drinks with NSY from time to time. As both Lestrade and his people really came through for him with the research for the book - some treating it as making up for doubting Sherlock in the first place - he could happily interact with most of them, except for Anderson, whose theories sometimes hit much too close to home for John’s comfort.

Autumn was in full swing, trees reddening and grass yellowing.

Soon, snow would be coming.

 

#

 

A Thursday evening spent with Mrs Hudson was now a tradition (despite the fact that they lived next door to each other, they liked to maintain some separation and meet at arranged times), so when Mycroft dropped by because it was the fifth of December (another “tradition” - replacement of their old check-ins), John combined the two, watching as Mycroft tried to fit in the tiny living room, surrounded by doilies and crocheted pillows. The man was a consummate diplomat though and soon he had struck up a conversation with Mrs Hudson to which John had not much to add, so he sat there, happy to watch them chatting about gambling in the UK and overseas.

After a while, the topic diverged and the two were discussing various Christmas-related customs from all over the world, a topic which mildly interested John but still was of some remote usefulness, so he focused.

“…and in Italy, they have a witch!” Mrs Hudson chortled.

“Which is not weirder than Poland - they have more than one being dropping the gifts,” Mycroft rolled his eyes slightly. “A Baby Jesus, an Angel and a Star Man.”

“Santa Claus doesn’t even show up?” John asked with mild interest.

“He does, but as Saint Nicolas, the original patron saint, and that’s why the lucky youngsters in Poland get their gifts twice. The second time is Christmas, but the first is the feast of Saint Nicolas on the sixth of December.”

“Ooh, smart. The kids probably write two separate letters then,” Mrs Hudson quipped.

“Well, not sure about that. But I do know that he only comes to children who  _go to bed early_  and stay asleep all night. He drops the presents  _by their bed_ during the night and on the sixth, in the morning, they find them.”

John’s head snapped up.

“That’s a nice tradition, dear. More tea, John?”

He drained the rest of his cup and shook his head.

“Thank you, but I’m quite done in. Too much lifting today. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mrs Hudson. Good _night_ , Mycroft.”

“Goodnight, John.”

It wasn’t a wink. Mycroft Holmes never  _winked_.

 

#

 

He was upstairs in a flash, tearing about the flat, putting things where they belonged. Making the bed with new sheets could wait, but the living room was atrocious. At least the kitchen was reasonably clean…

He didn’t hold much hope for Sherlock being hungry when he came - what time would that be? - but there was always something he could put together and quickly warm up in the microwave or the oven, if the detective decided it was one of the rare times he would take sustenance. The kettle boiled, so he prepared his tea - taking two mugs out of the cupboard and smiling at his silliness.

He should go to bed and wait.

But the flat still needed… No. He would leave it as it was. A shower,  _he_  needed a shower. He strolled into the bathroom, shedding his clothes as he went. He had to get rid of the dust that he had accumulated helping Mrs Hudson in the attic before he even considered touching his bed.

Well,  _his_  bed. He decided to take over Sherlock’s bedroom some time before, after he had twisted his ankle on the narrow upper stairs. It  _might_  have also been a bit of assumption on his side, but the way Sherlock behaved during that fateful Christmas week the year previous… Well, a man could hope.

Wrapped in a dressing gown, he went to the hall dresser to collect new linens and like that, hands full, he entered the bedroom.

Where the large bed turned out to be already taken.

Specifically, in the corner of the bed, covered with John’s blue duvet, someone was snoring quietly.

John cautiously set the linens on the chair and fetched himself a pair of pants. He briefly considered waking Sherlock up, but decided that letting him sleep - a rare occurrence - would be the best choice.

Somehow, watching the black curls spread on the pillow in front of him was the best way to lull him to sleep.

 

#

 

“John…” murmured a voice in his ear. “You can’t possibly be  _still_  asleep…”

He tried to turn, but there was a pair of long arms holding him to a - well, well, well - rather strongly-defined chest and equally muscled abs.

And, uhm, a rather insistent erection.

“Sh-sherlock,” he whispered. “What are you…”

“I thought it would be obvious to someone of  _your_  reputation,” a seductive voice sighed into his ear. “I had hoped that after the last year conversation the present would come wrapped, so I could carefully” he nipped at John’s clavicle “unwrap it” he kissed a bruise into the side of his neck “and discover” his lips worried John’s earlobe, making him gasp and squirm in the most indecent fashion, almost impaling him on Sherlock’s blazing hot…

“Aah,” there was a hand going down his own front, seeking the waistband of his briefs. “Sherlock, we shouldn’t…”

“I was in a hospital. Got tested for everything. I’m clean. On all counts, even the tests that take, hmm, longer to develop.”

“You’ve been in a hospital, ah, for at least two months? Why didn’t Myc…”

A small nip of teeth on his shoulder silenced him.

“Don’t mention my brother in bed again, please. But I have to admit, he did what he had to. I needed a long treatment and he deemed it better not to take you away from your duties. I was done early anyway… Or are you… I mean, if you don’t want to…”

He started retreating and John immediately felt cold.

“No, no, no,” he reached out for his detective and pulled him back into his embrace. “I’m not saying this. I’m just a bit… surprised. You know. That you would… want  _that_.”

Sherlock huffed in annoyance into his hair.

“I want  _you_ ,” he explained in an undertone. “I have been thinking about this for days and days - it got me through some rather nasty places, just thinking about the fact that you were here, waiting, that I have something to go back to. And it got me through the PT they subjected me to at the hospital. I knew that it would allow me to do… that.”

John suddenly found himself on his back, staring up at his friend’s - friend’s? lover’s? - face, their legs interlaced, their hard-ons rubbing slowly together. His leg was then arranged to go around Sherlock’s hips and Sherlock’s opposite leg went up, putting them in much closer contact than before.

“Oh,” he smiled as Sherlock’s eyes darkened, his friend - lover, definitely lover - loomed over him in a slightly menacing fashion.

“The only question now, John…” Sherlock leaned closer. “Is if  _you_  want it” his lips were bare inches above John’s. “What do you say?”

John strained upwards in Sherlock’s unyielding hold and managed to bring their lips together.

“Yeah,” he whispered, their breaths mingling. “Everything. Anything and everything you can give me.”

The kiss was unbearably sweet and - especially considering their position - almost chaste, in a way. Just their lips dancing together, touching for bare seconds and retreating. Finally, finally some tension went out of Sherlock’s body and he leaned lower, covering John’s prone figure more closely, allowing John’s head to rest on the pillow again. And they slowly opened up to each other, lips, tongues and teeth interplaying, huffs of breath coming short and strained.

“Will you let me…” Sherlock’s large hand went down from where he had been holding John’s arms pinned and caressed his hip and the leg hitched up and wrapped around Sherlock.

“Anything you want,” John pushed his hips up, into closer contact. “ _Anything_.”

“But… you…”

“You are home. I want to celebrate.  _Anything_ , Sherlock. Anything.”

“I’m home,” Sherlock whispered as if surprised. “Oh, John, I am home.”

Their lips met again, frantic against each other, seeking the confirmation of that simple revelation.

“You are home,” John whispered as they came up for air. “You came back to me.”

“You waited.”

“I promised I would.”

“I’m home.”

John’s lips pressed a kiss to the frowning forehead. He could feel the lines of scars on Sherlock’s back - faint, but still noticeable - and the places where his skin betrayed some of what he went through - burns, cuts, injuries that had healed before he could get medical attention - they would all need to be checked and treated correctly, but for the time being all he wanted was to give that wonderful, fascinating man all  _he_ needed, all  _he_ wanted.

“You are home,” he reconfirmed, pressing a kiss into that invitingly long neck. “You came back to me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [my tumblr](https://srebrnafh.tumblr.com/).  
> [My writing blog.](https://fanfik.wordpress.com/)  
> [My handmade blog.](https://srebrna.wordpress.com/)
> 
> Edit (April 2019):  
> I am taking a writing course and one of the tasks is to ask my readers to describe my writing style in 3 adjectives. I'd be grateful if you could provide this kind of feedback :)  
> (if you provided it already somewhere else - THANK YOU! :))


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